The Greatest Gift
by jkleeberger22
Summary: Halbarad's wife and daughter celebrate his birthday. Years later, in the light of a new age, they again observe Halbarad's birthday and the rebirth of Gondor. First place for Teitho challenge "Birthdays."


Disclaimer: Middle Earth is Tolkien's genius, not mine. This story was written for fun and not profit.

O0o

"At what hour will Ada return tomorrow, Naneth?" little Lothiel said, scrambling up onto Iarwen's lap. Iarwen looked fondly into the pair of earnest grey orbs that met hers and smiled. Whenever she longed for Halbarad, all she had to do was to gaze into her daughter's eyes and see pieces of herself and her beloved Hal reflected there.

"I know not if he shall be here tomorrow, little one," she said, stroking Lothiel's long brown locks. "Your Ada has much to do commanding his men."

"But he said he would return tomorrow, and tomorrow is his birthday! The Shire can spare Ada for a day, can it not?" the child said in her most persuasive manner, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck.

"I am afraid I do not have a say, Lothiel," her mother sighed. "The times are dark, and mayhap your father cannot be spared from his duties."

At that moment, there was a knock on the heavy wooden door. Lothiel's brother, little Hithion, stirred in his crib and took a deep breath to let out a long wail.

"I will answer it!" Lothiel said, hopping off her mother's lap and scurrying to the door. She reached for the lock, but it was too high for a child of six summers to dislodge.

"Perhaps you had better comfort Hithion instead," Iarwen said with a smile. Obediently, Lothiel nodded and scurried to her brother's crib. She stood on her tiptoes and dangled her small fingers over the top of the cradle, where they were grasped by even smaller, more pudgy fingers.

Iarwen smiled and opened the door. "Grandfather!" she said in surprise. "What brings you to our home? Won't you come in?"

Dirhael stepped inside, looking slightly sheepish. Lothiel looked up from Hilion with a cry of delight, and ran to greet Dirhael. To Iarwen's surprise and mild amusement, the tall, stern man bent over in eager anticipation of a hug from Lothiel. Dirhael's status as acting commander of the Dunedain in Aragorn's absence and his grim countenance had always made Iarwen timid around her husband's grandfather: Lothiel had never had any such qualms, always coming to Dirhael with her arms wide open to bestow, and receive, loving affection.

Hithion let out a squeal from the corner of the room, protesting his abandonment. Iarwen moved to lift the babe out of his crib, but even across the room she heard Lothiel's eager whisper. "Did you bring it?"

Iarwen, tucking Hithion's wriggling limbs into a blanket, looked up in surprise. "Lothiel! You know better than to beg for treats."

"It is all right, Iarwen," Dirhael said, holding up a hand to forestall a scolding. He drew back his cloak and withdrew a small jar of thick, golden liquid. "Your little one merely persuaded me that it would be amiss should my grandson not have a bit of honey cake on his birthday."

"That was very kind of you, Grandfather. Lothiel?" Iarwen prompted.

"Thank you," Lothiel said, standing on her tiptoes to brush a kiss against the Dirhael's cheek.

"You are welcome, little one," Dirhael said, the grim lines smoothed from his face by a smile. He ran a weather roughened hand gently over Lothiel's hair and turned to leave.

After the door closed with a creak and a click, Lothiel turned to her mother with wide, pleading eyes. "Please, Naneth? Will you make a cake?"

"Very well," Iarwen said with a sigh. "But what if your ada does not return tomorrow?"

Although she hated to dim the bright hope shining in Lothiel's eyes, to see it extinguished by tears of disappointment would be worse.

The hope did not dim. "He will come," Lothiel said with confidence.

O0o

The next morning, Lothiel had darted around like a happily humming bee. She had "helped" Iarwen with the honey cake, blowing on the batter to add "love and kisses." Then she had run outside to gather what she could find of the last wildflowers of summer, twining their stems together into a wreath to adorn her Ada's head. Iarwen had not expected Lothiel to be able to find even the small handful of blossoms she had gathered, but it seemed Yavanna herself had preserved a small cluster of flowers as tribute to the child's spirit. Then, Lothiel had waited eagerly while Iarwen tried to calm her with her usual play. For the first time, Lothiel had shown little interest in teaching her rag doll Luthien the first letters of the Sindarin alphabet. The slightest creak of the cabin's frame in the wind or the wooden thud of a dropped toy had sent her flying to the door.

Now, Lothiel was sitting on her bed, dressed in her night shift, with the flower crown resting on her lap. She had given up on reviving the wildflowers with sprinkles of water, and the honey cake, kept on the table for most of the day at her insistence, had been wrapped in cloth and put away.

"He did not come," Lothiel said in a small voice, tracing the edge of a drooping petal with her finger.

"Lothiel," Iarwen said gently. She lowered herself to her knees at the child's bedside, tipping Lothiel's chin up with her hand. Two watery grey eyes met hers, sending a pang through her mother's tender heart.

"He wanted to be here with us," she whispered. "More than anything else in Arda, but others needed him."

"He's my Ada," Lothiel insisted, her voice trembling. " _I_ need him. Just this once, for _one_ day."

Iarwen leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her little girl and holding her close. "I know," she murmured, tears pricking her own eyelids. "I do, too."

For several moments they sat in silence, then Iarwen gently drew away. "You need to get some rest," she said, brushing strands of hair off Lothiel's wet cheeks. "Mayhap your ada will yet come tomorrow."

Lothiel laid down, too weary to protest, and Iarwen drew the blankets snugly around the child's slender frame. She pressed a kiss on her forehead and crept quietly out of the room.

In preparation for her own sleep, Iarwen unwound her long braid and began to run a hairbrush through it. Her long, steady strokes grew swifter and harder, until she was yanking out clumps of hair in her frustration. Why, oh why, must the relative, shaky security of their own borders and those of the Shire come at such a price? At the price of a child's dreams, a child's happiness, a child's love?

There was a knock, almost so soft that she missed it. Flicking her hair over her shoulder, Iarwen rose and went to the door. She eased the door open a cautious crack, and there was…

"Halbarad!" Iarwen exclaimed, throwing herself into his arms. His strong but gentle arms engulfed her, pressing her against him, and stroking her hair.

Iarwen almost didn't hear the soft pad of unclad feet, but she did hear the glad cry. "Ada!" There was a pitter-patter as Lothiel ran across the wooden floor boards, then she launched herself at her ada's leg.

He scooped Lothiel up into a warm hug. "I have missed you so, my dear one!"

"I missed you too, ada!" the child said. For a moment she snuggled into his arms, enjoying the warm of his presence. Suddenly, Lothiel wriggled out of Halbarad's embrace and ran to her bedroom. When she returned, she was clutching the flower crown. "I made this for you this morning, Ada, but it is already starting to wilt," she explained mournfully.

Halbarad lowered himself to his knees, bowing his head so Lothiel could place the crown on his head. "That, I fear, is my fault. I am sorry I was delayed. It must have been a sore disappointment, after you made me such a beautiful crown."

Lothiel wrapped her arms around Halbarad's neck, pressing her face against his shoulder. "You didn't disappoint me. You are here!" came her muffled sob.

"We made you a cake, too," Iarwen said, smiling. "Come to the table with us, Lothiel, and I'll cut you a piece."

Lothiel's face was wreathed in smiles at the promise of sweets _and_ a later bed time. "Really?"

Iarwen laughed and hugged her. "Yes, I think we have had enough waiting for one day. You must promise me, though, that tomorrow night you will go to bed at your accustomed time without any complaints."

"Yes, I promise! Come, King Ada!" said Lothiel, bobbing in a mock curtsey that was more enthusiastic than graceful before tugging her father to the table.

Iarwen could not hold back a giggle as she tried to reconcile Lothiel's royal proclamation with the sight of Halbarad: still dressed in travel stained green and brown and smelling of horse, with a wreath of drooping flowers hanging lopsided over his ear. Halbarad turned to her, managing to look wounded despite the twinkle in his eye. "You do not think I look like a king, my love?"

"Why, you could not look further from it if you tried!" she teased.

"I suppose that's only fit. I am the cousin of a king, not one myself," Halbarad replied. Iarwen looked at him, wondering at the grave certainty placed in the word "king" even under the playful tones. With the Shadow growing and the remains of their people scattered, there was no reassurance that Halbarad's cousin would ever be able to claim his throne. Still, Halbarad's hope was strangely persistent, a trait which his daughter seemed to have inherited.

It was Lothiel's words that brought Iarwen out of her thoughts. The child wrapped her arms around her father's waist, her eyes merrily earnest. "You're a king to me, Ada."

"Thank you, princess. Now, let us eat your honey cake."

O0o

For years afterward, Iarwen cradled the memory to her heart to stave off pangs of worry and the knowledge that one day, her Halbarad might not come home.

Hithion took his first steps, lisped his first words, and toddled around proudly behind his sister. Soon he was running around in breeches instead of diapers, waving sticks in the air to fight off pretend foes. Lothiel read her first words in Sindarin, had her first riding lesson, and learned to ply her needle to repair the dress she had snagged on briars.

When little Mirda was birthed, it was as if the little blanket wrapped bundle had been a present sent just for her adoring brother and sister. A new set of firsts, seemingly popping out of the dirt like the first flowers of spring, followed.

Although all was well in their little home, the Shadow outside grew darker. Halbarad was away more often, with his visits few and far between, and Iarwen could see the marks of weariness, of sorrow, of burden engraved deeply in his eyes. Still, he returned with arms wide open to embrace his beloved children, a gentle smile easing just a measure of the tiredness from his eyes.

Until, in her heart, Iarwen felt the day when he would not return.

The word took long to come. The long roads from Gondor to Eriador were still being repaired from the ravages of war, and the land cleansed from the Enemy's beasts. Finally, a letter, its envelope wrinkled and stained from being passed hand to hand and tucked in saddlebags, arrived. It was a letter like so many others Aragorn had written over the years of laboring against the enemy, although it contained more personal, loving tones than the usual: a letter of quiet regret, detailing Halbarad's brave deeds and what was known of his final hours.

One of her loftiest dreams had come true, but its price had been the fulfillment of her greatest nightmare.

Her soul had felt laden down with care for the days leading up to the one when Halbarad fought on the fields of Pelennor. She had tried to reason away the thought that Halbarad was not coming home, attributing her heaviness of heart to the gloomy weather and the growing fingers of the Shadow, which now seemed able to wreak dismay and dread even halfway across Arda.

The truth, revealed in a simple piece of paper, was now unavoidable, pinning her beneath its sharp talons: Her Hal was not coming home.

O0o

They sat on the grass, both girls intent on their work. Dark sheets of hair fell over both their faces and trailed over their laps, a stark contrast to the bright blossoms cradled there. Hithion sat too, his long legs crossed with graceful ease. One hand was draped protectively over Iarwen's basket, flicking away the occasional impertinent insect. The other hand smoothed back tall blades of glass, methodically searching through the foliage and plucking at it. He made a small noise of triumph, and both his sisters looked up.

"Here you are, my lady," Hithion said gallantly, holding out a delicate flower arrayed in the colors of a robin's egg. A reluctant smile twisted Iarwen's lips at the thought that soon he would be offering such tokens to a lady love. For today, however, the witnessing of that pleasure, so wonderful and yet bittersweet to a mother's heart, was delayed: The flower was not being presented to a lover, but to Mirda.

Mirda, now a lass of eleven, giggled and accepted the flower from his hand. "Thank you, my lord."

"My, that one is a beautiful shade of blue," remarked Lothiel. Even as she looked up, her slender fingers continued to deftly twine flower stems into a delicate wreath. "Did you see this one, Naneth?"

Iarwen glanced at the bloom in Mirda's hand, then into Lothiel's grey eyes, still the very image of Halbarad's.

"It is beautiful." _And so are you, my Lothiel._ Her sunny little maiden had grown, and was now gracefully approaching womanhood. While she had grown in strength of mind and body, her love, her ability to find happiness in the little things, still glowed. It was something that not even daily hardship and grave tidings of war could dim for long, and now what Iarwen had always loved about little Lothiel shone undimmed after the fall of the Enemy.

Iarwen raised her eyes and squinted against the brilliant beams that reflected off the walls of the pure white city. Though it was diminished in size because of the distance, Minas Tirith still looked like a looming beacon of hope and sanctuary. Even though the storms of war had beat against its very walls, it endured. When Iarwen and the children had wandered through its gates, they had seen evidence of a city, a people, being rebuilt. Workman slaved over the finishing touches to the new city gate and gathered new materials to repair the lower level homes that had been burned during the battle for Pelennor. Young recruits in the livery of the White Tree patrolled the streets with eager diligence. Healers swarmed in and out of the Houses of Healing with linen bandages and herbs, restocking depleted supplies and aiding the very last of their patients from the war.

Before they had travelled far up the winding lower levels of the city, King Elessar had met them, clad in a scarlet tunic with the White Tree embroidered in silver threads. A circlet of silver in the style of the elven lords sat over his dark locks, which were combed and flowing to his shoulders. They were beginning to show a few grey hairs, but overall they added to his air of venerability and wisdom. An embroidered sheath of rich leather hung at his side with Anduril's hilt, whole and gleaming, poking out the top. Two guards in the livery of the Citadel walked at his heels, alert eyes scanning the crowd.

"Welcome to Gondor, Iarwen, wife of Halbarad, one who was as dear to me as a brother," he said with solemn regality. Iarwen hastily knelt, noting out of the corner of her eye that her children had followed her lead.

The next moment, she felt gentle hands grip her shoulders and draw her to her feet. Aragorn's fingers travelled to her hands, clasping them warmly.

"Nay, dear lady. Formality is meet for a greeting, but let us lay it aside now. Though we may not be of closest kin, Halbarad and I were dear to one another. He spoke of you and your beautiful children often, and I was delighted with your hospitality when I was last able to sup in your home. Let there be no uncomfortableness between us, despite long absence."

His keen grey eyes clearly possessed the ability to relay piercing command, but they were filled with kindness as they met Iarwen's eyes and held them as warmly as Aragorn held her hands. "I am glad you have been able to come at last. If there is anything I can do to aid you on this journey of memorial and healing, I will give it in a heartbeat."

She had hesitated. "My lord, if I may beg a boon from your kitchens?"

A gentle touch on Iarwen's arm jolted her out of the memory.

"Naneth?" Lothiel said. Something of the depth of her Iarwen's thoughts must have been showing on her face, for Lothiel sounded hesitant to disturb her. "Yes, my love?" Iarwen encouraged, giving her a smile.

"We are ready."

The children's cheerful talk faded to a respectful silence that was just as precious to their mother. They all rose, Hithion gathering up the basket he had so zealously guarded from antish invasion. With his other hand, he took Iarwen's arm, lending silent support both for her body and emotions as they walked.

They finally reached the plot of land they had been seeking. One by one, the children stopped and knelt by a grey stone, etched with Sindarin script, placed by the Lord Aragorn as a memorial to the fallen. Lothiel and Mirda placed their own memorial, their flower wreaths, on the ground in front of the stone.

Iarwen opened her basket, removing a small wrapped parcel. Carefully she unwrapped the cloth fabric and gently laid it on the ground. On it, she placed a single honey cake.

Then, because the act of memorial was for her children as much as it was for Halbarad, she unpacked the rest of her basket and gave each of them a sweet, tender cake.

Lothiel, who knew the memory behind her mother's choice of remembrance, took a nibble of cake and closed her eyes: she was imagining her ada on this same day but of a year long ago, doubtless urging on a horse as fast as was safe while his thoughts raced impatiently ahead of his mount's hoof beats. Toward home, where his daughter sang merrily, dancing through the fields and picking blooms for the celebration of his birthday.

"You never disappointed me, Ada," Lothiel murmured. When her eyes opened, they were shining with tears. As she looked up at Iarwen, a smile of love and remembrance crossed her face. "Not then, and now."

"Nor I, Hal," Iarwen murmured. She thought of her children smiling and talking as they sat in the gentle sunshine, weaving crowns of flowers, and of the Gondorians working to restore their beloved city. The death of the Shadow had been a rebirth, the beginning of a new age, and her children would grow up in the light of the dawn. It had come at a great price, but, oh, freedom was sweet!

"If only you could see this," she whispered, her fingers tracing the letters etched into the cool stone. "By your sacrifice, you have given us the greatest gift. The least we can do is to celebrate the beautiful day you were birthed, that we may not forget."

Iarwen looked at the children, then back at the grave stone. She took a deep breath, and, because this was a day of sorrow and quiet joy mingled, she smiled through her tears. "Happy birthday, my love."


End file.
